“I think you’d get a better response face to face than over the phone.” This wasn’t the time to tell Duvall that her phone manner wouldn’t ingratiate her with a woman who was already predisposed to dislike her because of Duvall’s reluctance to provide protection for Kit and his fellows.
“A home address, then?”
Steve cast a quick glance at Terry, who was curled on one side, watching him with a smile. For a brief moment, he considered going through to the other room to avoid any chance of Terry recognizing her supervisor’s details. The instinct to confidentiality was bred in the bone, but he realized that if he was going to stand any chance of making this relationship work, he had to let her into his life. He took a deep breath and recited the familiar address. Terry’s eyebrows rose and her expression changed to one of curiosity. Steve ended the call and tossed the phone back on the dressing table.
“I won’t pry if you’d rather I didn’t, but I couldn’t help recognizing Fiona’s address,” she said.
Steve got back into bed and stretched out his arm to pull her into his embrace. “You heard about the guy who confessed to Georgia Lester’s murder at the press conference?”
“I saw it on the news, yes.”
“Well, City of London want to consult with Fiona about it. They think he’s a strong suspect.”
“And they want to establish linkage with the other two crime-writer killings, is that it?” Terry’s interest was piqued and she shifted so she could prop herself up on one elbow.
“That’s right. She’ll jump at the chance. Apart from anything else, it might reassure her that they’ve got the right person and she can stop worrying that Kit might be next on the hit list.”
“Of course. That’s why she’s been right off the planet the last couple of days.”
“It didn’t occur to you that Kit might be a target?”
“What can I say? I’d sort of forgotten about Kit. I’ve only met him once. Plus, Fiona never talks about her home life. And really, nobody’s been talking the serial killer angle up much. The papers all made out that there was no connection between Drew Shand and Jane what’s-her-name.” She shook her head crossly. “God, how could I be such a dummy? She must have been off her head with worry.”
Steve sighed. “She’s been as near as Fiona ever gets to frantic. We had a row over it yesterday. She was angry because she was the one who actually came up with the idea of searching Smithfield, but neither City nor the Met could commit to protecting Kit.”
Terry frowned. “Oh Steve, that’s bad. Torn between the personal and the professional. What a shit of a time you and Fiona must have been having. Worried stiff about Kit and ending up going head to head with each other.”
“It’s not been easy,” he acknowledged. “At least it looks as if Kit is safe now, for which I am profoundly grateful. The guy’s my best mate, and if anything had happened to him, I don’t know how I would have coped. The only thing is, I’m afraid it’s really screwed things between me and Fiona. She’s not a woman who forgives easily.”
“She’ll come round in time,” Terry said with breezy confidence. “Especially if you do a bit of serious grovelling. She always responds well to a good grovel, in my experience.”
Steve shook his head. “It’s going to take more than that this time, I think.”
Terry cuddled into him. “All my hard work, getting you relaxed, and now you’re wound up like a spring again.” She reached for the bottle of massage oil. “There’s nothing for it. You’re just going to have to put Kit and Fiona out of your mind and lie down and take your medicine like a man.”
Steve managed a smile as he shuffled on to his stomach, feeling his muscles fluttering as she straddled him. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” she said. “Just think how much better I’ll be when I’m qualified…”
He groaned as her hands, slick with oil, began to massage his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”
“We’ll work up to it gradually, soldier.” Her strong fingers kneaded the powerful muscles of his back, erasing all thoughts of Sarah Duvall and even Fiona Cameron from his mind.
Fiona was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. Frowning at the unexpected interruption, she walked down the hall to check the spy hole in the door. The chances were it was some hack who had decided that he needed to try Kit for a juicy quote for the morning’s paper. If it were, Fiona would take great pleasure in blowing him off. One thing was certain. No friend would have called round this evening without checking ahead by phone first.
To her surprise, Fiona recognized the person on the doorstep, though what Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall was doing there was beyond her. Muttering, “Hell and damnation,” under her breath, Fiona opened the door. “DCI Duvall,” she said.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” Duvall said stiffly, as if apology were a stranger in her mouth. “But I hoped you could spare me some time.”
Fiona stepped back and indicated that Duvall should enter. “Second left, the kitchen. We’ll talk in there.”
Duvall walked down the hall, taking it all in as she went. Good-quality wooden flooring, expensive oriental rugs, a couple of dramatic landscapes in oils on the walls. At the turn of the stairs, a man she recognized as Kit Martin appeared, looking curiously at her.
“It’s work, Kit,” Fiona called. “I need to have a word with DCI Duvall.”
“Can’t wait till morning, eh? No problem,” he said, turning and vanishing back upstairs.
“I saw on the news that you’ve got someone in custody,” Fiona said as she followed Duvall into the kitchen. “Please, have a seat.”
Duvall pulled out a chair and sat, crossing her legs precisely.
“I was making coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Thank you.”
“Black, wasn’t it?” Fiona didn’t wait for a response, reaching for a second mug and filling it up from the cafetiere. She put milk in her own mug and brought them both to the table, where she settled down opposite Duvall. Carefully keeping her face blank to match the police officer’s, she said, “So, what brings you to my door?”
“As you said, we have someone in custody. We had little choice, given the very public nature of his confession,” Duvall said, an ironic note in her voice. “But the position is far from clear-cut. His name is Charles Redford and he’s admitting the killings, but he’s giving us nothing that isn’t already accessible to anyone who has studied newspaper reports and the Georgia Lester novel that the murder appears to be based on. A search of his flat produced nothing conclusive. He had copies of the three crucial books by Shand, Elias and Lester on his desk. There was a stack of newspapers containing stories about the three murders, but so far, nothing for forensics to have a serious go at.
“We have had one break, in that his phone bill shows that he made calls to both Shand and Lester’s numbers within the last three months. And an agent has given us a statement saying that Redford threatened her. She had been considering taking him on, but she’d decided against it. When he got her letter of rejection, he turned up at her office and barged past the receptionist. He got into her inner office and shouted abuse at her. He snatched a paper knife that was lying on the desk and waved it in front of her face, telling her she should be careful who she insulted. Then he threw the knife at the wall and stormed out.”
Fiona sipped her coffee and said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows slightly. Her earlier encounter with Duvall had left her with no desire to make this any easier for her.
Duvall cleared her throat and continued. “She says she decided not to call the police because she was flying out to New York the following morning and she didn’t have time for the quote, ‘hassle’.” Her expression was of grim disapproval. “We also took a look at his computer, but so far we haven’t found any trace of the threatening letters. I’m hopeful that the computer specialists will be able to find something when they examine the hard disk more
closely, but I’m not prepared to pin my hopes to that.” She lifted her slim briefcase on to her lap and opened it. “I’ve brought with me copies of the letters and also a copy of the flyer he distributed at the press conference this afternoon.” She extracted a handful of transparent plastic envelopes, each of which contained a photocopied sheet of paper. She closed her briefcase, replaced it at her feet and placed the envelopes on the table. “I believe the language is distinctive enough to demonstrate they were all written by the same person. I intend to place these with a linguistics expert, in the hope we can demonstrate that.” Duvall met Fiona’s eyes. There was no help there, but she continued regardless. “What I hoped was that you could look at them from the point of view of a psychologist and tell me what you think.”
“What I think about what?”
Duvall pursed her lips. She hadn’t been expecting an easy ride. Open hostility she would have handled easily. But Fiona’s stubborn failure to give anything back was too similar to her own style for her to understand how to get round it. “Whether the same person wrote all these. Whether that person is capable of escalating from letters to action. Whether there are clues in this material to indicate a connection to the crimes. Whatever you find there, I’m interested in.”
Fiona held her mug in both hands and looked steadily at Duvall. “Do you think he’s the killer?”
Duvall pushed the bridge of her glasses against her nose. “Does that matter?”
“I’m curious. I have something at stake here, if you remember,” Fiona said coldly.
Duvall uncrossed her legs. “I’m not someone who operates on instinct. I work on evidence and experience. Based on that, I’d say he’s more likely the killer than not. He’s arrogant and overconfident. He’s vain, very vain. He’s convinced that he has been ripped off. I think he’s planned this very carefully, so that he’ll be charged and tried and found not guilty. Then he’ll finally get his chance to show off to his heart’s content. I think your partner is safe, Dr. Cameron.”
Fiona had heard what she needed to hear. “I’ll do it,” she said.
Duvall placed a hand on the envelopes. “There’s something else,” she said.
Fiona didn’t like the way Duvall worked. There was a cold calculation to everything the detective did and said that made her feel used. If it hadn’t been for her personal connection to this case, she would never have gone as far as she had. But she was irritated by the assumption that having gone this far, she could be pushed further. “It’s late, Chief Inspector,” she said, her voice cold. “Let’s cut to the chase.”
Duvall blinked. “I’m not here to waste time, Doctor. Yours, or mine. I’m well aware of your work on crime linkage. If we are to get this case into court, I believe it’s important that we make a convincing case for connecting the three murders. I’ve already spoken to my colleagues in Edinburgh and Ireland and they’re willing to let you review their evidence with a view to formulating a tenable theory that we can take to court that the three murders are the work of the same person.”
Fiona shook her head, an expression of disbelief on her face. “You took for granted that I would agree to this?” she said.
Duvall shook her head impatiently. “I hoped you would. If you say no, I’ll find someone else. But I’m told you’re the best. And, as you pointed out to me, you have had something personal at stake in this case.”
Fiona stared at Duvall, a mixture of reactions battling inside her. She was outraged at the woman’s presumption, angry that she had been out manoeuvred flattered in spite of herself, and intrigued as she always was by the prospect of a professional challenge. This wasn’t one she wanted to hand over to someone else, she admitted to herself. But the knowledge that Duvall would see her agreement as some kind of triumph smarted. “The circumstances of these murders are very different,” she said, determined not to give Duvall what she wanted right away. “It’s unlikely that I’m going to be able to come up with the sort of concrete connection that juries like.”
Duvall gave her small, tight smile. “We both believe that the same person killed Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester. We both know if that is the case, they have to have left their signature on each crime. You know how to read the invisible ink. I know how to translate that into hard evidence. Are you in or out?”
The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. It was, Fiona knew, time to put up or shut up. And this case was too close to home for her to bear the thought of leaving it up to someone else. She reached out for the envelopes. “I’m in,” she said.
Charles Cavendish Redford leaned against the cold wall of his cell. He knew there was no point in trying to get some sleep. They’d be watching him through the peephole in the door and they’d simply wait till he nodded off, then wake him up to take him back to the interview room, hoping he’d be disorientated enough to let his guard drop and give them something only the killer could know. He wasn’t going to fall for that. The beauty of having read so many detective novels and true crime was that he knew all the tricks of the trade. He was going to stay awake and alert, fuelled by adrenaline. There was a strict time limit on how long they could keep him without charge. Whatever they did then would suit him fine. Charged or released, he’d still be within the plans he’d made so carefully.
It was all going beautifully. That policewoman was a godsend. He could wind her up, and the more antagonism that built between them, the more likely she was to charge him with Georgia Lester’s murder. He would have his hour in the sun.
He wasn’t afraid of being found guilty. He was far too clever for that. One way or another, he would walk out of this a free man. And then publishers would be falling over themselves for his work.
He shifted on the thin mattress, making sure he didn’t get too comfortable. He smiled inwardly. For far too long, Charles Cavendish Redford had put up with being slighted, robbed and cheated. Soon, however, that would be history. Soon he would be a household name. Just like Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester.
FOURTY-FOUR
Fiona leaned against the doorjamb of the living room. “Duvall wants to send someone round tomorrow to interview you,” she said. “To see if you remember a bloke called Charles Redford sending you any manuscripts or letters.”
“That’s not why she came round though, is it?” Kit said from his prone position on the sofa.
“No. That was incidental.” She walked into the room and chose the armchair that gave her a view of Kit’s face.
“Charles Redford. He’s the man they have in custody?” he asked. He knew she’d tell him the point of the visit when she was ready. Till then, he was happy to let the conversation go where it was comfortable.
“That’s right. Do you know him?”
Kit’s brow furrowed as he trawled his memory. “I’ve got a feeling he sent me a manuscript a couple of years ago.”
“What did you do with it?”
“What I always do with unsolicited manuscripts. Sent it back with a polite letter saying unfortunately I don’t have the time or the expertise to critique other people’s work and suggested he get an agent.” Kit yawned. “I don’t remember hearing any more from him.”
“You didn’t read it?”
“Life’s too short.” He reached for his glass and tipped the dregs of his wine into his mouth. He waited for Fiona to get round to the real purpose of DCI Duvall’s visit.
“I’m going to Edinburgh in the morning,” Fiona said.
“Drew Shand?” Kit asked.
“Duvall seems to think there’s some value in trying to establish linkage between the three murders. I’m not sure I see the point. They occurred in three different jurisdictions, and as far as I understand the legal principles, you can only try each case in its own jurisdiction. And I’m not sure to what extent each court would allow evidence of the other crimes. But the other police forces involved have agreed to cooperate with the attempt, so they must think there’s some value in it, if only to clear their
own books. Duvall appears to reckon she’ll have more chance of nailing him for Georgia’s murder if she can demonstrate a pattern of behaviour.”
Kit elbowed himself upright. “So the info we got earlier was spot on? They’ve got the right man.”
“Duvall thinks he’s a strong suspect. And she’s the person on the ground. There’s certainly little doubt he’s the letter-writer. Duvall says the language is practically identical. And, embarrassingly for me, she reminded me of a case I read about in the US where someone who wrote threatening letters went on to kill half a dozen people. I hold my hand up. I was wrong when I said I didn’t think this letter-writer would escalate into murder.”
Kit grinned. “Can I have that in writing?” Fiona met childish with childish, sticking her tongue out at him. “So when are you leaving?”
“There’s a flight just after nine.”
“I’m glad you’re going. I liked Drew. And Jane. I don’t like to think that whoever killed them is going to get away with it. If anyone can build strong enough linkage to convince a jury, it’s you.”
Fiona sighed. “I wish I shared your confidence. It’s going to be a hard one to stand up.” She looked away. “I’d like it if you came with me.”
“Why? There’s no need, not now they’ve got what’s-his-name behind bars.”
Fiona, who couldn’t quite articulate what was bothering her, shrugged. “I know. I’d just rather you were with me, that’s all.”
“I’ve got a book to finish,” he protested.
“You can work just as easily in Edinburgh. You can sit in the hotel room and write all day.”
“It’s not that simple, Fiona. I’m all over the place. This business with Georgia, it’s doing my head in. It’s all I can do to get the words on the page right now. And that’s sitting in my own office with my own music and my own things around me. There’s no way I’m going to be able to concentrate in a strange place, with chambermaids bombing in and out and nothing to filter out the background shit except daytime TV. I’m not coming, and that’s that.” His jaw jutted defiantly, daring her to disagree.